19‘José, José, José.’
I was fed up with being summoned by my grandfather. The grievance rankled, but it rarely came to the surface and never passed my lips.
When my mother talked about how she had suffered, psychologically at least, when working for the old lady in Kuwait, I didn’t understand what she meant until I found myself working so hard for Mendoza.
After a long, exhausting day, I would leave my window open to hear the sound of the crickets, but that was rarely the only thing I heard.
‘Damn you, bastards!’ Mendoza’s drunken voice, alongside the sound of the crickets. ‘Merla.’ He said Merla’s name in a hushed voice, then shouted out my name: ‘José!’
I didn’t answer.
‘You bastards.’
I opened my eyes. The shadows of the bamboo plants danced on the walls of my room, cast by the f
